


10

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, a sweet 'verse with a dark twist?, dodges rotten tomatoes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>once your heart appears, you have exactly ten hours to locate your soulmate. you have to, literally, follow your heart to find love. if you fail, your heart stops.</p><p>mickey's fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 9

As fate would have it, Mickey's just about to deliver a beat down when his heart appears.

It's not as ugly as he thought it would be. Your heart is a representation of your soul, after all, and Mickey doesn't have a good soul. That's general knowledge, pretty much something he sussed out at birth. 

It's not black or shrivelled like he's heard some people tell him his will be – like _he_ believed too, with grim acceptance, even if he told them to go fuck themselves at the time – or big and red and cartoony like a lot of chicks tend to think theirs are going to be, but it isn't really _nice_ to look at either. 

It's fucking _orange_ , for one. There's a bright spot of it in the center, like a ball of sunlight, and it blinds Mickey a little at first. He doesn't think it belongs there. The rest is a mess of colors, patches of this and that all over. There's dark brownish red around the outside that reminds Mickey of dried blood, and further in there are spots of cool blue and warm yellow, and army green mixed with slashes of deep purple like bruises. It's a fucking mess, so at least that part is apt.

But, let's get back to the "how it happened" thing.

It's a Tuesday night and he's on his way back from an uneventful trip to pick up smokes, feet kicking up dirt as he cuts his way through back alleys and side streets. He's not in a particular hurry to make it home, especially knowing Terry's drunk ass is parked on the couch, but shortcuts mean less time walking. Once a slacker, always a slacker.

He's nearing his street when he hears someone lurking a few paces behind him. The footfalls are too slow and too casual to be an innocent pedestrian. He knows what kind of person's following him – he's been tailed before, he fucking _knows_ the sound of the prep before the jumping – and this one's not subtle at all.

It's almost a relief, because it's been too quiet. Since he woke up at the ass crack of dawn to go do his community service hours, until now, he's had zero problems. Smooth sailing. That right there is enough to make him uneasy. The entire day he felt on the edge of something, waiting — to fall, to fucking _fly_ , who knows what's going to go down. His life is _never_ this easygoing. It just isn't. Something's gotta give. 

He didn't even use his five-finger discount at the store. He paid for his pack of Marlboro's and got his change with minimal fuss. A glance at the cashier's face had drained any thoughts he'd had about picking up a few extra items. Something in her raccoon eyes, big and weary and tired, reminded him of Mandy, and when his gaze caught on a blooming bruise across her cheek, makeup caked on to try and hide the black and blue, he was out of there a few seconds later with nothing more than a buck, twenty-five cigarettes, and a dull thumping beneath his ribs.

Mickey shoves his fists in his pockets, fingers curling around the hilt of his knife, thumb petting the top of the blade. His blood starts to pump with nervous, anticipatory energy. Adrenaline seeps through his veins at the prospect of a fight. He relishes the feeling and whistles cheerfully, because _yes, about fucking time._

For a moment, he appreciates the balls this guy's got to have for attempting to sneak up on a Milkovich, but mostly he's laughing, because balls or not he's going to be getting his face slashed up in five... four... three... two...

Mickey stops whistling abruptly. He spins around, chin raised in challenge and mouth twisted in a cruel smirk. He's met with empty air, nobody there. Hiding like a little bitch in the shadows. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he shouts, taunting. 

Like it somehow senses danger, Mickey's chest – right beneath his ribs, again – throbs hot in warning, but Mickey exhales and pretends it's not there like he does every time. Or at least, he _tries_ to. Lately, it's been harder and harder to ignore his chest when it acts up. He doesn't like to think about the reason behind that.

He walks forward, trailing the tip of his knife along the wooden slats of the fence, ears tuned for movement ahead. _Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic..._

Naturally, it's on the sixth _tic_ that his chest starts burning like hell. It doesn't hurt, not like his insides are roasting, but a different kind of burn that fizzles and pops, expanding and expanding, wanting out. Wanting out _now_. It startles him enough with its strength that he bends over and starts gasping, robbed of his breath and vision spotting. It's both wonderful and horrific at the same time, because he knows this isn't a heart attack. Not yet. This is— this is— oh. Yeah.

His soulmate calling.

His death sentence.

The sight of his heart turns his stomach to lead, sends bile climbing up his throat in sheer panic. His face and his palms and the backs of his knees start to sweat. His pulse thunders in his ears. He feels like he's going to heave. His grip goes slack and his knife clatters to the ground, and that's really the perfect opening for his fellow pickpocket to reveal himself.

The guy charges at him and Mickey goes down hard, body still in shock as fists fly at his face. There's a wet _crack_ as his nose breaks under one punch, and his bottom lip busts open under another, leaking bright red, but Mickey's unmoving. He's not trying to fight back, for once in his life. He stares up at the sky, where his heart is floating, in a daze.

The countdown has begun.


	2. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a meatball rolls across the floor, leaving a bloody red trail in its wake, and for one horrible moment ian wonders if his mate just died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i did not mean for this update to take months?? i really appreciate everyone who's read, subscribed, commented, or left me kudos. you are wonderful and i'm SO sorry to leave you waiting. i really hope this update doesn't disappoint but i feel like it might be a horrible mess. and i'm going to fling it at you anyway.
> 
> i decided to do this one in ian's pov. next one will be back to mickey again, and then repeat. probably.

Ian's heart appears during dinner.

There's nothing particularly special about the meal. They're having spaghetti like they do every Tuesday night, courtesy of Debbie. Ian's in front of the stove scooping sauce onto his generous heaping of noodles. Fiona is getting the Parmesan cheese from the fridge. She tosses it over Ian's head to Lip, who catches it one handed and pops the top. Debbie is grabbing mismatched cutlery from the drawer in front of the window. She shuts it with her hip and dodges out of Carl's way when he tries to swipe the bread knife from her hands. Liam is sitting quietly in his highchair and drinking apple juice from his sippy cup. Frank is probably lying passed out in a ditch somewhere with an empty bottle in his hand.

To be honest, things are running almost _too_ smoothly, but Ian's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth and he's not gonna start now. He's just happy to see his family all together and generally unharmed.

As he's putting the ladle back into the sauce pot, Ian feels an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. A slight furrow forms between his brows, but it doesn't make him stop what he's doing. Things like that happen all the time. It's normal. But when a second one comes right after the first, that does make Ian pause. 

When a third one follows, this one even stronger than the second, Ian exhales sharply. His body floods with concern and anger. His mate is the most reckless person he knows. Well, he doesn't even _technically_ know him, since he's never met him, but he can feel him. He knows him on a deeper level. They're connected. So what Ian knows right now, without having to see it, is his mate is in trouble right now. Getting into fights is apparently his M.O., and Ian wishes he'd stop putting his fucking life at risk.

There's not much he can do where he's standing, though. In this position, all Ian is capable of is trying to push his own feelings along the tether and hoping his mate can hear them. Over the years, he's learned his mate has an emotional wall up around him miles high, a divide he wants to keep between them. His mate doesn't want to let Ian in, but Ian hasn't given up on him. The wall isn't impenetrable and he intends to keep chipping away at it until it crumbles.

Ian's had a long time to get familiar with the way it is to have a soulmate. It's like living with another person inside you, experiencing the echo of another person's emotions like you'd inhale secondhand smoke when somebody's standing next to you with a cigarette —except that other person is _his_ person. His mate.

Ian has no idea what his mate looks like. He has no idea where he comes from, or who his family is, or how old he is, or what his name is. Surprisingly, though, the list of things Ian _does_ know isn't all that short in comparison.

Ian knows that his mate is a _he_ , for one. Since he was thirteen and got his hands on his first dirty magazine filled with muscles instead of soft curves. Since he fucked Roger Spikey and it was better than any girl he'd ever fooled around with. Not great, because it was his first time and Roger was kind of an asshole about it, but still better.

When his chest twinges, like it is now, Ian knows his mate is getting hurt. Sometimes there's a crackling brightness interspersed, like his mate is enjoying whatever trouble he's gotten into. Sometimes there's heat, like pure rage.

When his chest constricts, tight and heavy, he knows his mate is suffering. That feeling never really goes _away,_ always present in some form, but sometimes the weight and the squeezing will fade into the background until it's just a dull ache. On the other hand, sometimes it's so bad, walls closing in on him on all sides and crushing him, that Ian has to go find a place to be alone so he can stick his head between his knees and just concentrate on breathing in and out.

When his chest speeds up, excited, Ian knows his mate is turned on. That, in turn, usually makes him horny as fuck. His mouth will go dry. He'll start to sweat. He'll get hard. (Not always at the most convenient time or place.) Ian knows they've jerked off at the same time before. Together, but apart. Ian has to imagine what his mate sounds like, looks like, feels like, what he's into, but Ian knows the emotions that punch through his mate when he comes. Shame, fear, guilt, pleasure. The only comfort he can offer from so far away are his own emotions. Lust, desire, pride, warmth.

When his chest is completely empty, void of sensation, those moments scare Ian the most. They feel like he's been disconnected, hollowed out and scraped thin. Hopeless. Luckily, those moments are less frequent.

So, Ian may not have physically met his mate yet, but he does know him.

He's heading to the table, brows still pinched in irritation, when he suddenly staggers, plate slipping from his hands. It lands hard, glass shattering, marinara flying. It should burn where it hits him - it's still _steaming_ \- but Ian is in too much shock to feel anything but what's going on beneath his skin, in the center of his chest. It's beating wildly, in a way it never has before. Pushing, pushing, pushing. A meatball rolls across the floor, leaving a bloody red trail in its wake, and for one horrible moment Ian wonders if his mate just died. His vision spots, legs going weak. He catches himself on the edge of the counter and narrowly avoids dropping to his knees right in his ruined dinner.

Lip is at his side in the next instant. " _Whoa._ Easy there, big guy," he mutters as he wraps an arm around Ian. Broken glass crunches under their shoes as Lip leads him to a chair, and Ian drops down on to it, breathing fast and heavily. 

"You look like an axe murderer," Carl comments into the sudden silence. He eyes the front of Ian's stained shirt, fork frozen, poised in the middle of twirling a huge mouthful of spaghetti.

Everybody ignores him save for Fiona. "Carl, please," she says sharply, giving him an exasperated look before getting up and grabbing a dish towel from the kitchen sink. Debbie takes it from her and starts cleaning up the mess on the floor. 

Fiona kneels down in front of Ian. "Hey, you alright?" she asks, watching him worriedly. "Do we need to go to the hospital?"

As Ian blinks, he notices something. There's a shape growing out of thin air in front of him. It's big, and it's... beating. Relief hits him, temporarily washing over his horror. His mate isn't dead. He knows what's happening. This is _it_.

"No," Ian replies, after too long a pause. His voice sounds faint to his own ears, far away like he's watching the scene from a spot outside of his body. His heart is floating above Fiona's head. Ian glances at it, blinking slowly again, and then tears his gaze away and shakes his head. "I just... got bad heartburn." Pun intended. "I'm fine now."

"You don't look fine," Fiona says. "You look like you're gonna be sick." She reaches up and presses her palm to his forehead. It's blessedly cool. Ian closes his eyes, but it's like his heart is burned into his retinas, inescapable. It shows up behind his closed lids as vivid as anything. Big, beating, half dark, half light, strong.

"Should I go get Vee?" Debbie asks. She hovers behind them, dishtowel now clutched in her hands. Splotches of red litter the fabric.

Ian does feel sick, but it's not something that can be cured with stolen medication. "Don't get Vee," he answers, before Fiona can. He swallows and gets up. "I'm gonna go lay down." Bed rest won't cure him either, but he needs to calm himself.

His mate is getting hurt. Badly enough that Ian is feeling it too. He's used to the echo of what's going on, but now it feels electrified. Increased tenfold, like Ian's actually standing in his mate's shoes, experiencing the pain himself. He feels like somebody just broke his fucking nose. His lip throbs.

"I'll come with," Lip says casually. "Debs, save us a plate, would you? We'll eat later."

"I made dessert too," she says uncertainly.

Ian forces a smile. " _Definitely_ save us some of that."

"Okay."

Ian rises from the chair with five sets of eyes on him, but thankfully he doesn't stumble again. It's weird having everybody's full attention, full concern. He's used to being overlooked, unintentionally ignored, and having to raise his voice to be heard. Sometimes it bothers him, but right now he just wants that invisibility back. He escapes from the room on shaky legs and heads up the kitchen staircase. 

"Let's go to my room," Lip says, following behind him. "Light one up. I got the good stuff."

Ian knows that isn't the only reason Lip wants them to go to his bedroom and not Ian's shared bedroom, and Ian feels briefly grateful towards his brother. He can't be around anyone else right now, especially not his younger siblings. Some quiet is what he needs. Ian nods.

For once, Lip doesn't push Ian to tell him what's going on. They enter Lip's room and Lip doesn't say anything when Ian immediately goes to lie down on the bed. He puts his head on the pillow, closes his eyes and tries to regulate his breathing. Lip keeps the light off. The only sound Ian hears from him is the pad of his booted feet as he crosses the carpet and the opening and shutting of a drawer as he, presumably, goes to get his weed stash from his desk. He probably already knows.

"This is it," Ian whispers anyway.

The flick of a lighter. "You'll be okay."

Ian stays silent, breathes. 

The edge of the mattress sinks under Lip's weight as he sits down. "You'll find him." Ian feels a hand pat his ankle.

"He doesn't think I'm going to." Tears burn the corners of Ian's eyes. "He thinks he's going to die, and I..."

"You'll find him, Ian," Lip says firmly. "I know you will." 

He sounds so calm, so _sure_ , that Ian eventually feels his breath slow and his tears recede. Lip passes him the joint when he opens his eyes, and Ian grasps it between his fingers and raises it to his lips. He takes a deep pull. Exhales. He looks up at the ceiling. "I'll find him," he repeats.


	3. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he actually feels bad for the guy attached to him. if his "mate" is smart enough, he knows they're never going to find each other, that they're fucking doomed from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha, uh... remember this?
> 
> i thought i lost my inspiration for this AU a long time ago, but it turns out i just needed a break. a really big, long break. please don't hate me for being the most unreliable writer in the world.
> 
> also please heed the tags, as there are additional warnings!

When the shock wears off, the first thing Mickey registers is pain. That tool actually had a pretty mean right hook, pussy hiding act aside. Mickey groans as he peels himself up off the gravel, dusty rocks digging into his elbows and palms. He rises to his feet and immediately stumbles, cursing. After he regains his balance, he brings his hands up to his throbbing nose and probes at it gingerly, just to make sure it actually is broken like he thinks it is and not just swollen. 

It's not just swollen. Taking a deep breath through his mouth, Mickey positions his fingers. Better to get it over with now. It's far from the first time he's had to reset a bone, but that doesn't make it any easier. It always hurts like a goddamn bitch. That, at least, is a reliable thing in life. Pain. Mickey grits his teeth. 

He doesn't cry out. Nausea hits him, making him gag and see double, but he grits his teeth harder and breathes through it. Probes his nose again. Blood caked around his nostrils, blood streaming down his face and neck and soaking into his muscle shirt, but he's semi-confident he managed to straighten it out.

If only it was that simple to straighten out other parts of himself. But then, it doesn't even matter who he fucks now, does it? Because he's not gonna _be_ here tomorrow. He's gonna be six feet under, and nothing's gonna matter anymore. Mickey's stomach lurches again. 

He starts walking. Now that his nose is taken care of there's nothing to keep him calm, nothing to keep his hands steady. They start trembling so violently that even clenching them into fists doesn't stop the tremors. He stuffs them into his pockets to hide them and keeps moving. He wants his mouth and eyes to betray nothing, to turn steely, but he's blinking too fast, eyes too wide. 

His pockets are empty. His knife, gone. His smokes, gone. Lighter, gone. That single fucking dollar, gone.

Something else has been stripped from him, though. Something that's been so close to crumbling lately has finally crumbled. It's unsettling. He feels different. Bare. He's never felt safe, but right now he feels like he's naked, a turtle without his shell. Emotions that aren't his own are running through him, and this time he can't even try to ignore them. _Mate,_ his brain supplies. _That's your mate._

His ugly heart is floating in front of him, beating in time with the real heart beating in his chest, the one that's going to stop today. Or tomorrow. Early morning? Fuck, what time is it? How much time does he have left? Why isn't there something telling him how much fucking time he has left?

He wants a cigarette so bad he considers picking up one of the dirty butts littering the ground and sucking on it, just barely resisting.

As he's turning onto his street, his heart suddenly halts in place. Mickey goes right through it because he's nearly power walking and flinches. It didn't hurt. But the sensation is definitely weird. Warm, like sun on the back of the neck on a summer day, despite the fact that it's night right now and closer to autumn. Mickey shivers as it fades and keeps walking, determinedly not looking back, even as he starts feeling a tugging sensation, and the further he gets down the street, the harder the tugging gets.

Mickey finally stops, taking a few harsh breaths, before turning around to see his heart straining in the opposite direction. It's still pretty close to him, like there's some sort of barrier preventing it from moving more than a few paces away. It keeps pulling like dog on a leash, and Mickey knows it wants him to follow it.

Mickey turns on his heel. "Fuck _it_ , and fuck _you_ ," he mutters, spitting blood onto the road and stomping away. He's not gonna spend the last ten hours of his life running around town like a bitch, looking for someone he's never gonna find.

If Mickey ever found out who designed this whole soulmate bullshit he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through their heart. Multiple bullets. But the thing is, of course, nobody has a clue how this stuff started. This game of running for your life disguised as running for "true love". There are a lot of speculations, a lot of articles and books and movies about soulmates out there, but nobody really _knows_ anything. Not for sure. If you ask Mickey, looking for the answers is like looking for a piece of hay in a stack of needles, if those needles were doused in lemon juice and you were using your bare hands.

He actually feels bad for the guy attached to him. If his "mate" is smart enough, he knows they're never going to find each other, that they're fucking doomed from the start. Hell, they could be half a world apart and not know it. His mate might not even speak fucking English. 

If it was ten _days_ they had, maybe things would be different, but it's not. It's ten hours. The reality is cruel, and Mickey has a pile of dead relatives to prove that getting your hopes up is a fucking pointless thing to do.

As Mickey approaches his house, the urgent tugging feeling he's fighting against finally eases up slightly, enough that he sighs in relief.

He goes into the house like nothing is wrong, screen door banging against the frame as he barges in. He half expects his dad to yell at him and ask him where the fuck he's been, but his old man is passed the fuck out, reclined in his barcalounger with empty bottles littered by his feet, lit cigarette hanging precariously from his meaty fingers. Mickey doesn't move to put it out for him, a savage part of him hoping Terry drops the cigarette and burns the fucking house down with himself still inside. He won't be here to see it.

Mickey stops and looks down at his dad's face for a moment, slack in sleep but still somehow managing to look menacing, and he only has a few parting words for him. "Sayonara, motherfucker. Hope I don't see you in hell." 

He heads to his room. He just wants his stash of deathday goodies, then he's gone, out of this shit hole for good. This is the last time he's ever gonna be in here. The last time he'll look at his walls covered in posters of bands and stupid naked chicks. He's never gonna have to wish those chicks actually turned him on anymore. Never gonna have to hide his sketches because drawing is a hobby for fags. Never gonna hold a bag of ice against his wounds and dream of being somewhere else with someone else, in the middle of the night when he's alone in his bed and tendrils of warmth and pride that don't belong to him are pulsing beneath his chest and soothing what the ice is trying to numb.

Mickey goes over to the worn spot of carpet by his window and drops to his knees, fingertips finding the edge and peeling back the crudely cut square to reveal the floorboards underneath. He loosens the middle one, wedging his finger under it until it pops free, the outer two following. He doesn't quite smile when he sees the dusty old shoebox, but seeing it does make him feel a bit better, especially when he opens it and everything is exactly where he left it.

A wad of cash. A bottle of whiskey. A baggy of pills. His sketchbook. A gun. One bullet.

Mickey's eyes move to the gun, and he swallows. He doesn't want to die, but it's not like he really has anything to live for either. When he really thinks about it, his life is worthless, his future bleak. He's a piece of shit thug from the South Side of Chicago. He doubts anybody would really care if he stopped showing up, stopped breathing, stopped existing. His dad would probably laugh. His brothers would join him because they're fucking pussies. The people in his neighborhood would probably throw a fucking party. The only ones that would be affected by his death are the junkies he sells coke to.

And Mandy, maybe. If she ever finds out.

Shit.

She'd... she'll be fine. Right? It's not like she's tried to contact him since she moved away. And that was six months ago. The only thing Mickey knows for sure now is she's working at a diner in Indiana and living with three other girls. He had to practically wring the information out of that douchebag ex of hers.

Mickey bites his lip, uncertainty edging in. He has the address saved in his phone. Maybe he could... maybe he should go. Track her down. Really make sure she's safe with his own eyes. Tell his little sister he fucking loves her before--

" _God damn it,_ " Mickey grits out. He takes a few minutes to breathe unevenly, to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and press the heels of his hands against his eyes, before he pulls himself together and gets up. 

He grabs his backpack and shoves the shoebox inside, zipping it up. He changes into a new set of clothes, clean boxers, his favorite sweater and his most comfortable jeans, and then goes into the bathroom to clean up his face. He'd rather not show up on Mandy's doorstep looking like he just lost a fight, even though that's pretty much what happened. His reflection in the mirror is pale. He looks horrible, the blood on his face a stark contrast to his ashen skin, his eyes huge.

_I'm coming. I promise._

Mickey nearly jumps out of his skin when a voice reverberates through his thoughts, interrupting them. Invading them. There's a fucking _voice_ in his head, speaking to him. A voice he's never heard. A male one. Only four words, but strong, and it makes the hairs on Mickey's arms stand up.

...It's him. It has to be, unless Mickey is suddenly going crazy. Which would be on par for the course, considering how his night is going.

Mickey shudders a little as warmth floods through his veins, and he closes his eyes, because he knows for sure now. It feels like a caress, so fucking gentle, a stark contrast to the firm voice.

Promises aren't real. Mickey doesn't believe in promises. They always break.

Mickey's leaning forward before he can stop himself, though. Gripping the sides of the grimy sink as his head bows, accepting the invisible touch. Craving more comfort, sweet relief. _Please._

There's no hesitation in the reply. He's immediately rewarded with another wave of warmth, pulsing through him and making his knees threaten to give out. The voice repeats the sentence again, sounding determined. One hundred percent certain of what he's saying.

_I promise. I fucking promise I'll find you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might be editing this more later. but in the next chapter there will be some actual ian/mickey interaction.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos & comments make my day. ♥ /greedy grabby hands


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